


don't you know, little fool, you never can win

by debeauharnais



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Pre-S1, a wee bit smutty but not very lmao, character study of the duke, hopping on the love letters bandwagon, hush i'm obsessed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debeauharnais/pseuds/debeauharnais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Write me sweet nothings that I may amuse myself with."</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you know, little fool, you never can win

_18 July, 1911_

Dearest Thomas,

You must think me rather desperate, writing to you like this when you’ve scarcely left London – but you did tell me to write, darling, all but begged me! I shall never forget how very sad you were at our parting, how wretched. It’s really quite comical – you tell me the rest of the staff don’t much care for you, that they think you quite a fiendish little knave (and that is rather true); I wonder what they would think of the Thomas who wept at our goodbye and peppered such sweet kisses across my lips, my chest, farther down still… But those thoughts are ours alone and they have no right to know of the things I’ve seen your filthy mouth do, of the ways those same fingers you serve that bore Grantham with have touched me. How I have made you scream. I long for your eyes most, I think – the defiance in them even as you committed the most devilish of deeds. Such an insolent servant. Oh, Thomas… If only you could see what the mere idea of you does to me, what I do to myself over this letter… How pleased with yourself you would be.

Ah, but perhaps you thought I would forget you the moment you stepped foot on that train. Perhaps I thought so as well. But there have been all manner of pretty creatures drifting around these past days that I have let pass me by (let us see how long it takes me to regret doing so). London suddenly seems so very dreary, populated with tedious people who would no doubt be far more interesting dead (despicable, aren’t I?). I was in Caernarfon (or something like that) just the other day for dear Edward’s investiture and it did little to ease my boredom. They say Wales is such a fine place – I can’t think why. I could hardly understand a word anyone said. It is at times like those that one needs a witty companion; how horrid of you not to be there.

It is a terribly addictive thing, Thomas – to be consumed by a hunger for someone so intolerably far away. I hate Yorkshire. Yes, I hate Grantham for being selfish enough to steal you from my bed. Tell the old fool that. I doubt it would provoke much of a reaction.

Write me back without delay or suffer more of my moaning. And do amuse me with further tales of a life in service. You know how very thrilling I find them.

Yours,

Crowborough

 

PS. Please don’t bother with any tiresome aliases in your letters – I certainly shan’t in mine. God willing, the risk will offer some relief from this endless Season and bring closer the day when I may again hold you in my arms and worship that delicious body of yours with every inch of mine.

»»»

 

_22 July, 1911_

Dearest Thomas,

You truly are so very droll, even in written form – are you entirely certain you aren’t Wilde reborn? My Thomas, dreadfully clever and with beauty sufficient to drive Lily Elsie herself to envy. There was never a luckier man than I. Your stories certainly did the trick – if I were I in your shoes, I’m certain Carson would have long since driven me to murder. And Mary! Ah, dear Mary. I don’t like to speak against so young a thing but she is such a little dolt. Pretty, I’m sure, and undoubtedly eager to please, but I cringe to think of a life spent married to her. Obvious reasons aside, she is far too preoccupied with giggling at anything any fellow says to be of any real interest in a conversation. It is almost reassuring to hear she possesses rather a cruel streak. Poor Edith indeed. Even so plain a girl doesn’t merit such unkindness.

I enjoy this. My own little spy.

The rest of your letter was even more enjoyable – I don’t know where you learned such despicable words but I’m awfully glad you did. I continue to trudge through life, entirely at the mercy of my own desire; the days are almost bearable but it is the long, hot nights I cannot stand, when my only companions are my memories and imaginings. We must make new memories, you and I – I have very nearly forgotten the taste of your skin, the charming sight of your pretty red tongue on my cock… My fingers seem so entirely useless when they are not being put to admirable pursuits inside of you. I burn for you, Thomas, long to lose myself in you.

Write to me the minute details of your filthiest dreams and please, my darling, pleasure yourself to them so I may know they have been consummated in reality – at least a little.

Yours, hopelessly,

Crowborough

»»»

 

_30 July, 1911_

Dearest Thomas,

I despair to move into August without you but, at the very least, it means this sorry Season will finally – finally! – be at an end. But with the new month comes the promise of returning to Crowborough, and that I cannot bear think on. A few days more of freedom and then I shall be forced to return to the confines of my little prison. It’s such a dull place, Thomas – and even further from you. I feel sure I am at the ends of the Earth whenever I visit. Ah, the life of a Duke. It is only your letters that keep me invigorated and your last did not disappoint in the least. Thank you, darling. You must know what your words can do to me – just thinking on them sets me to aching in the most enchanting of ways. It is your face and your pretty verses I see when I fuck myself, but what I would give to have your hands in place of mine…

Perhaps I may have to invite myself to stay at Downton. As sorry a habitat as Crowborough, I imagine, but I should be willing to shoulder such hardship if it meant finding pleasure with you. In fact, I should be rather in favour of taking you in your own quarters – why concern yourself with fear of being discovered by a servant when you have been afforded the protection of a Duke?

Yours always,

Crowborough

»»»

 

_3 August, 1911_

Thomas, you disappoint me. Why must you insist on ruining the only source of joy I have in my days with talk of business? Of course I remember what I told you – but I by no means promised it. If you should ever like to leave Downton, I will do my very best to find a place for you. And if a marriage to Mary is truly on my horizon, your leaving may very well be closer at hand than you realise. But be practical, Thomas. I cannot very well place you – as wholly lovely as you are – above my union to the girl; Lord, we are all but betrothed as it is. I do not care for her a fig but unless you are able to conjure a fortune out of thin air, my darling, then that is how it must be and we must both resign ourselves to the fact. You do make me feel so used.

I care for you, Thomas. But I must care for myself more.

Crowborough

»»»

 

_21 August, 1911_

Ah, so you’ve taken it upon yourself to deign to respond. How dreadfully considerate of you.

I’ll be honest, Thomas – I contemplated burning your letters and having done with this silly affair once and for all. You know how refreshing I find it, the manner in which you feel free to address me, as though we were equals. But there comes a point, my dear, when such brazenness can become obnoxious.

Perhaps I ought to do a little more thinking as to where the fate of our romance lies. It grows more obsolete by the day.

Crowborough

»»»

 

_29 August, 1911_

My darling Thomas,

It touches my heart to know the extent of your feelings – I am sorry my last letter affected you so terribly but I was rather cross; your saccharine words and apologies make me wonder now how I could ever have held you in such low regard. Find comfort in the knowledge that there has not been a night these last two months that has not been filled with thoughts of you; that you are the sole occupant of my mind. Never has this sorry world seen such a yearning for another and I wager it never shall again – it pains me to be so far from you; I long to disappear into your embrace and mark your pretty skin all over with our own secret messages. Then all God’s creatures may look upon your flesh and know you are mine.

Write me sweet nothings that I may amuse myself with.

Crowborough

»»»

 

_16 November, 1911_

Dearest Thomas,

Of course I have not forgotten you. How can you even imagine such a thing to be possible? Have you not seen for yourself the exquisite sight of your black hair against ivory flesh? Not explored the divine contours of your body? I know you have, darling. So you must know that what you ask is entirely inconceivable; no mortal man could resist your appeals, nor could they very well forget them.

But I have been ever so busy. I know what they say: the life of a Duke is so easy, so pleasant, all we do is sit around and chatter like sparrows. Ha! I should very much like to see a Duke’s coronet placed atop a peasant’s head and see for myself how long it takes him to flee from the responsibilities. We are the sacrificial lambs, in truth – sparing the common man from having to endure endless hours at the mercy of one insufferable noble after the next. If only I had you, Thomas, to look forward to at the end of the day. How I would ravish you – and how I do precisely that every night in my dreams.

Yours, with the greatest of affections,

Crowborough

»»»

 

_23 December, 1911_

Merry Christmas, my dear. I only wish it had not been soured by the unfortunate happenings you’ve made me privy to. Damned unlucky – I really ought not to have expected much better of Mary but she did seem so smitten with me. I suppose Grantham was less so, twit that he is. Patrick seems a nice enough fellow the few times I’ve met him, if a bit dim-witted, but I can’t very well see him and Mary getting along all that well. It’s really quite an inconvenience – I spent an entire month courting that tiresome girl only to have her throw me over for some cousin who happens to be an heir. An heir! What of a Dukedom? Half a year wasted and now I’m to be forced back into the monotonous search for a monotonous heiress with a monotonous title. Curse that blasted strumpet to Hell!

And you’re right, of course – this puts rather a wedge in our schemes, darling. But do not fret just yet. I will find myself an eligible lady – Mary is hardly the only jeune fille on Earth, no matter what she may think – and nothing need change between us in the meantime. There need be nothing to mar our joy just yet.

Merry Christmas again, my sweet Thomas. The Feeling of the Feeling of the happy Christmas time, indeed.

Crowborough

PS: Do keep me informed of the goings on at Downton; I’d hate to miss a thing.

»»»

 

_7 January, 1912_

Dearest Thomas,

I hope the New Year has treated you well thus far – it doesn’t do at all to think I have not laid eyes upon you for some five months. The feel of your lips on mine remains as clear as it was last summer and I long for the day I can once more conduct a thorough examination of your beautiful being.

_Escape me?_

_Never—_

_Beloved!_

_While I am I, and you are you,_

_So long as the world contains us both,_

_Me the loving and you the loth,_

_While the one eludes, must the other pursue._

It is a shame Mary’s fortunes have not yet changed. The search for an heiress has hitherto been rather uneventful – they are certainly not in short supply, nor are they unwilling to entertain my attentions, but news of my financial complications appears to have reached some rather well-connected ears. My patience is being tested, it seems.

Send me thoughts to bolster my spirit – touch yourself in the most wicked of ways and think of me.

Yours,

Crowborough

»»»

 

_14 February, 1912_

Dearest Thomas,

Happy Valentine’s Day. I very much hope you happen to open this letter in the servant’s hall – I like to imagine a handsome blush creeping across your cheeks; would you part those cherry lips of yours, lure a quivering breath into your hot, wet mouth? Even more so, I like to entertain the image of you bent over that table – perhaps at the head, so that horrid Carson may smell our desire in the air for days afterwards. Can you imagine, Thomas? The way my fingers would burn poetry into your skin; how my tongue would glide over your scorching flesh – your belly, your cock. I want you.

You wrote you are filling in as Grantham’s valet? Congratulations. I feel quite jealous. You must impress me next time we meet.

Yours,

Crowborough

»»»

 

_17 April, 1912_

You are a blessing, Thomas – more than ever before I wish I could be there to exalt and praise you. Oh, but what grand news this is! Patrick and his father have my eternal gratitude for having been thoughtful enough to perish. A ghastly thing to say, I agree, but more than excused by the utter misery I have endured these past months.

I shall be there the moment Mary is out of mourning – Grantham will have received my request to stay in the same batch of post as this letter. Ah! How I shall pay tribute to you then.

Yours, happily,

Crowborough

»»»

 

_6 July, 1912_

Not long now, my darling.

Yours,

Crowborough

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading my dumb little take on this infamous topic, cutie!! hahaha
> 
> the poems that the duke quotes are 'life in a love' by robert browning and 'the christmas feeling' by joe cone. 
> 
> xxx


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